


A Consulting Detective and his Autobot

by Draqua



Category: Sherlock (TV), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draqua/pseuds/Draqua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smokescreen and Sherlock friendship adventures</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Visitors from the Stars

“So,” Sherlock sighed, mouth curled downwards and fingers fluttering out to gesture at the figure before, above, and below him, “here it is. Yet another answer to one of life’s great many questions laid bare with frustrating simplicity. This particular inquiry, of course, being whether or not we are alone in the universe.”

The detective's back was straight, though not overly stiff as he sat with his legs crossed, calves and feet pointed downwards over the edge of the massive, metal palm.

He lightly traced his index finger over the chipping paint on the corresponding digit of the titan’s, mind clicking away the exact comparative scale between the two of them rounding down to three decimal places. Both himself and the hand were bathed in a soft blue light emanating from the being's equally massive eyeballs, casting flickering shadows over lazily curled phalanges. The intensity shifted from time to time; brightness seeming to correlate with the appearances of nouns in Sherlock’s sentences.

Interesting. A conscious reaction or something instinctual?

“A bewildering aspect of ordinary people… They’re so preoccupied with what might be brewing up and away from earth that they utterly neglect to really look at what is being presented right in front of them.”

The immobile face of the proud-red symbol stared silently back at him from in between cacophonous white and blue racing stripes.

“To think then, that after all these years of collective pondering. Hundreds upon thousands of people devoting their lives to fixating collective eyeballs upon the heavens. Minds whirling and burning out as they imagine countless worlds with an unnumbered populous, that we should come to the inescapable conclusion …”

Sighing again ever so slightly, Sherlock leaned forward to clasp his left kneecap with both hands and honed his gaze piercingly upward into those big, blue eyes.

“…That there truly is no intelligent life in the universe after-all.”

“Dude,” Smokescreen laughed, “your accent is **hilarious**.”


	2. Just us

It wasn’t so much the thundering pain in Sherlock’s torso that knocked him back to consciousness as it was the grousing voice of the dependably-dour Ratchet. Eyes squinting against the harsh, industrial lights of the Autobot base, Sherlock came back into himself, carefully assessing his injuries and the situation.  
  
“Really, Smokescreen…” Ratchet growled from high overhead, twisting dials on the medical scanner with one hand and pointing an accusing finger to the young Autobot with the other. “This is too much! How could you have been so reckless?”  
  
Smokescreen, Sherlock observed through slightly clearing eyes, was standing against the far wall of the medical lab; looking uncharacteristically stiff and uncomfortable. Oversized feet shifted guiltily. As Ratchet continued his scan of the downed detective, so too did his barrage against Smokescreen.  
  
“Out cold for more than 30 minutes. Whiplash. Not to mention rib trauma I haven’t even begun to catalog! You call yourself an Autobot guardian? If anything, I’d say this man has seen more brushes with death thanks to his association with you than ever before!”  
  
Speaking up seemed to rather be off the table at the moment, but Sherlock did want to interject if for no other reason than to shut Ratchet up for two blasted minutes while he provided clarification. After-all, it had been Sherlock’s fantastically bungled idea to goad the Woodley brothers into a harrowing car-chase down the pastoral country side. A stunt which, apparently, had ended in some rather painful wounds to Sherlock and so far no news on those damned, drunken Woodleys.   
  
Plus, the aforementioned “brushes with death” were quite simply false. Sherlock ought to know. If anything, serious injuries against his person had gone down more than 30% quarterly since partnering the massive automaton. Not to mention that globe-trotting capabilities and therefore productivity were at an all-time high. If anything, though Sherlock would never vocalize such a fact to Smokescreen personally, work had achieved that wondrous balance of delightful adventure without the sticky risk of debilitating hospital visits.  
  
Ratchet, seeming to feel that the human charge had been significantly dealt with, strode across the room for better access at biting Smokescreen’s head off.  
  
“The only reason we even allowed you to maintain contact and get stationed in Europe was because of Bumblebee’s recommendation! He said you were ready for more responsibility. ‘I’ll stake my Spark on it’ he said! What if I called him up right now and showed him what his ‘responsible brother-in-arms’ was letting happen to humans?”  
  
Sherlock, feeling increasingly annoyed over the great deal of fuss being made and yet no one seeming to have picked up on his convalesce, attempted to shift himself up to cut in. The throbbing pressure in his ribs kept him down and twisted groan lurched out instead.  
  
“…Completely and utterly without sense!” Ratchet continued, increasingly maneuvering into Smokescreen’s face “Why, if Optimus was here, he’d-”  
  
“ **But he’s not!** ” Smokescreen roared suddenly, throwing his shoulders forward. The rapid change in tone and temperament sent even Ratchet pulling back.  
  
From down on the medical table, Sherlock was trying his best to get a good visual of the argument without moving. The volume of Smokescreen’s voice had rattled his now tender bones and there was a risk of another black-out coming on.  
  
In spite of all that, he clung to consciousness out of a desire to see how this conversation would play out. Purely for information gathering of course, certainly not for any other motives such as a personal curiosity over Smokescreen’s infatuation with the enigmatic figure of 'Optimus Prime' who Sherlock only knew through distant eyed conversations and the epic eulogies Ratchet pontificated at the drop of a hat.  
  
“He’s not here…” Smokescreen repeated, drawing in a shaky breath. The florescent bulbs hummed above him. “It’s just us.”  
  
As fainting spells are want to do, a most inopportune wave of dizziness came over Sherlock at that moment and he dropped in a black out.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock blinked awake sometime later, feeling much improved, though considerably annoyed for having lost so many precious hours. His ribcage was bandaged and braced, not to mention the pleasant feeling of lightness chugging through his veins indicated he’d been hopped up on enough experimental Cybertronian biological-healing-medication to deal with anything more serious.  
  
A quick look around confirmed he was indeed still in the Autobot base, though no longer the medical lab. Rather, Smokescreen had spirited them away to a remote hallway which suited Sherlock just fine as it was now blessedly quiet. The robot was slumped against the wall, knees splayed to either side and large hands held up at chest level with a previously sleeping Sherlock curled up in those great, metal palms.  Usually bright eyes seemed dull and decidedly elsewhere. Again, much to Sherlock’s chagrin, he was not being paid attention to.  
  
Eager to be up, out, and back home, though the current difficulties he was having sitting up straight put a damper on that, Sherlock leaned upwards and cleared his throat expectantly.  
  
Smokescreen didn’t respond; eyes still unfocused and eyebrows contorted as though in pain. The Autobot gave a shuddering exhale.  
  
“Optimus… He’s not here. It’s just… me.”  
  
Sherlock was still for a moment, but eventually lay back down as though to sleep and (with some pain) stretched his long, white hand up to rap against the blue of Smokescreen’s torso.  
  
“Please don’t talk. It makes your chest move up and down, and it’s very annoying.”


End file.
